Natalie Kane

LDN

I rarely make trips to Central London, mainly because it terrifies me in the most idiotic way. It seems entirely too large for me and I become unbelievably overwhelmed by the underground, the swarms of people and the feeling of renewal that I shouldn’t be aware of. I’d love to say that my trips to the capital are inconsequential and without event, but they aren’t. Aside from the reason I am there, I always find a reason to feel detached from it and wherever I have come from, temporarily aligning myself with whatever fits, whatever wants to fit.

But that sense of terror, of foreboding, quickly goes, and a strange grief sets in. London has always been a place of meeting for me, a central point in which all the avenues of my life meet. There’s a friend that I haven’t spoken to in a while now, an old teacher of mine, who I used to meet up with every year at the National Theatre. We don’t meet anymore for some reason, so now the place holds only echoes of the very few conversations we had. It’s the same now, London remains a network of memories, of which I understand very little. I love the very newness that London gives me each time I arrive, but like all old things, it leaves you with a sense that you don’t belong with each other and it will end very soon.

 On a lighter note, I used the time to soak up some wonderful pieces of art (and search for Windsor (Nearly, but I failed)). Here are some of my favourites:

Dirk Skreber - Untitled (Crash 1), 2009, Red Mitsubishi eclipse Spider 2001. & Untitled (Crash 2) 2009, Black Hyundai Tiberon 2001. Saatchi Gallery.

Yes, JG Ballad was the first thought to cross my mind. For something so hostile, these are particularly beautiful. 

Richard Wilson, 20:50, 1987.  Sump oil and Steel. Saatchi Gallery.

Words cannot describe how stunning this is in the flesh, how very calm and still it made me. I stood and looked at it for about 15 minutes, a part of me very annoyed at those who didn’t spend as much time with it. A very haunting, spectral piece of work.

Francis Bacon, Study for Portrait on Folding Bed. 1963. Tate Modern.

It’s a very obvious opinion to have on Bacon, but no-one embodies a sense of the grotesque better. Skin is blue and textured, unromantic and cold, but very, very alive. 

This is part of the Tate Modern’s wonderful exhibition Material Gestures, which, if you live in the city or are going to visit, you must see. It’s wonderful, Abstract expressionism is a favourite of mine, and there are some great pieces. In particular, the Rothko Room with his Maroon Series, which is typically dim-lit, atmospheric, and deceptive. If you get there for 1pm, there is a really wonderful talk by a man who’s name I’ve unfortunately forgotten. I have a bit of a hatred for talkers that don’t take instinct, or first impressions, into the evaluation of work, but this guy did.

One interesting discovery I made was not a piece of art, but rather an evaluation that I hadn’t realised before. Looking at Jackson Pollock’s Summertime I noticed the plaque next to it that explored fractals in his work. I can’t find the exact comment, if anyone has it I’d be unbelievably happy as I’m a massive geek and anything that incorporates art and science excites me. Anyway, here’s an audio talk on it.

Fractals in the paint.